


A Woman Alone

by Llewelley



Category: The Night Manager (TV), The Night Manager - Jean Le Carré
Genre: Espionage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hotels, Sex Work, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10344822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewelley/pseuds/Llewelley
Summary: As the night manager of a luxury hotel, Jonathan Pine leads a dull and disciplined existence in the Swiss Alps as a refuge from the violence he has witnessed in recent years. He begins to have friendly encounters with a beautiful woman who often spends nights alone in the hotel and they strike up conversations concerning their unusual professions. Their incidental relationship may be of more consequence than the two realize.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intertwined with the canon plot line of the TV series though there are some details from the novel and many from my imagination.

This was not a hotel for a one-night stay. This was Zermatt, at the foot of the Swiss Alps, the majestic Matterhorn looming in the near distance. But several times a month Jonathan Pine, the night manager, found himself tending to single-nighters, usually men of a certain type accompanied by women of varying degrees of beauty—from very beautiful to extraordinarily beautiful. It was a source of entertainment for several members of the night staff, as it had been in previous hotels where he’d been employed, but Jonathan mostly ignored it. He was so accustomed to discretion that even after speaking to them, even after accompanying them to their rooms, opening champagne bottles, and turning on the hot tub jets, he almost immediately forgot about their existence. Their names and faces existed only for the moment he attended to them and then he was back to the quiet of his mind and on to the next task. He was thankful that his time in the service had given him the ability to be selective with his thoughts and to live in the present. His mind, for the most part, did not wander. 

As the evening drew closer to midnight on his shift, Jonathan was enjoying the mild relief of having all scheduled guests checked in and knowing that the company party in the hotel bar had wrapped up to glowing reviews. He would wait for the gentlemen playing snooker to retire and then go out for his cigarette break, the one thing he looked forward to every night.  
He took the time to look over his schedule and think about upcoming events. He would have to leave a note for staff on how to deal with vendors and catering in the morning for a wedding, not that he didn’t trust the managers on the other shifts, but he trusted himself more. Just as he was about to do this, the presence of a person standing before the desk caught his attention.  
The elegant lady with wavy, damp hair looked up at him. Her face was rosy and clean, with lingering dark smudges around the eyes as if she’d just removed her makeup. She wore slim silk trousers and a white scarf wrapped loosely over her shoulders to conceal the shear camisole beneath. Yes, he had seen her before.

“Is there anything I can help you with, madam?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve never stayed in one of the Alpine suites before and I don’t understand how the showers work. I keep pressing the button that’s supposed to increase the water temperature, but it doesn’t seem to be doing anything.” 

Jonathan nodded in recognition of the common problem.

“It’s very silly for me to be coming to you with this so late at night, but I have to catch a train to Milan very early in the morning and I’d like to shower before I leave.”

“My apologies, madam. Other guests have had the same issue since the showers in those rooms were remodeled. If you will allow me, I can show you how it’s done.”

“Sure. Thank you so much. Again, sorry to be a bother.”

“Not at all.”

Her accent was so indistinct, he thought, as he escorted her to the lift. It was the voice of someone who had learned English to the point of perfect fluency, but he couldn’t place the origin of it. He’d known several people like this while moving from country to country for his father’s work; they spoke many languages with ease. Hers was cool and silvery and lacking any of the affected haughtiness he’d grown accustomed to hearing. 

Standing next to her while ascending to her floor was a challenge to his professional poise; his gaze drifted sideways to get a better look at her. She was slightly below average height with brownish–red hair like in a painting by Titian. Her wide-set eyes were accented by neatly arched brows and eyelashes sweeping sleepily to opposite corners. Her figure, what he could make of it, was one of gentle curves and perfect posture. Were he compelled to appraise her looks in the company of other men, as was the degrading custom, he would have had to admit that she was remarkably attractive. She must have come with someone. But whom? 

She stepped ahead of him to open the door to her room with the kitschy old-fashioned key and he walked confidently towards where he knew the shower was located in this particular suite, separate from the clawfoot bathtub. The vanity table in the bathroom was covered with cosmetics, accessories, and several pieces of women’s intimates. Nothing he hadn’t seen many times before. Jonathan climbed into the large glass box to reach the digital control panel and she observed with close attention. 

“There it is!” he exclaimed, stepping aside. The water poured down from the center of the ceiling like a soft rainfall, hitting the pebbled floor. It was clear from the building steam that it was warm now.

“You only have to press the square button again to set it at the temperature you’d like, you see. Otherwise it thinks you’re being indecisive.” They exchanged a smile. 

Jonathan quickly turned the water off before stepping out. It was amenities like this that reminded guests why they opened their wallets for the Hotel Meisters. 

“These new-fangled things always cause a bit of trouble at first, but it’s all meant to enhance guest experience.”

“It’s a very nice detail, actually. I suppose I’ll feel like Gene Kelly,” she joked.

He chuckled softly as they walked back to the suite door. “Well, ma’am, don’t sing too loudly. Wouldn’t want to deal with a noise complaint from your neighbors.”

“I promise I won’t, Mister…” 

“Pine, madam.”

“Pine. You don’t have to call me madam or ma'am or anything. Isn’t it enough that I’m obliged to call you by your family name? I’m Camilla.”

She reached out her hand and he shook it. It was small and dainty with manicured fingernails just long enough skim his flesh. She had a very calming presence, almost as if were her job to reassure him and not the other way around. Of course, he could not refuse a visitor’s request to be addressed by a preferred name.

“It’s a pleasure, Camilla. Jonathan.” 

“Ah, Jonathan. That’s much better. That’s a strong name, Jonathan. I hope you don’t let anyone call you Jon.”

“I don’t, Camilla.” The way the name rolled of his lips sounded dangerously flirtatious and he scolded himself internally for his bad form. He found that he simply could not help acting a bit flustered before this woman. “I like your name as well, Camilla. Camilla of the Volsci.”

“That’s right!” she said, smiling broadly. “Though I can’t really claim the whole virgin thing.”

Now she was the one flirting. Very charmingly and very successfully. It was time, he decided, to take that well-deserved break.

“Well, you’ve been a great help, Jonathan. I guess I’ll let you get back to some real work. Thank you again.” 

“My pleasure.” 

Jonathan bowed out politely and returned to the front desk, determined to look through the guest database and figure out who this woman was and why he could recall her face, but not her name. There was no sign of a ‘Camilla’ in the records. The room she was staying in had been reserved by a Belgian businessman named Roger van Houdt who was a first time visitor to the Meisters, and Jonathan could not remember anything about him except that he’d checked in alone and had no luggage. She must be a mistress, he figured, and let out a sigh at the realization. He’d always had a great sympathy for such women; they gave their whole selves to men while receiving a sliver of affection, a bit of attention over dinner, a pair of diamond earrings—never a full life. 

But who was he to judge? It wasn’t as if he led a full life either. With this melancholy thought he went out into the cold night for a smoke.


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks passed, everything the same as ever, except when it wasn’t. The busy months had given way to the lull of springtime, but Jonathan made sure to assign his staff plenty of tasks to keep them occupied and to keep the hotel and grounds in prime condition should any more bookings appear.

His personal routine was also maintained. He woke up every day at 16:00 and exercised on an empty stomach for an hour. Countless push-ups and sit-ups followed by a series of fast sprints on the treadmill. He showered, made a breakfast of oatmeal with fruit and soft-boiled eggs, ate quickly, shaved closely, and topped off his neatly pressed three-piece suit with a Windsor knot and a gold tie pin. Only then was he ready for the daily hike to work. 

The tram that took him to and from the Hotel Meisters offered an awe-inspiring view of the mountains, but Jonathan could have been just as satisfied anywhere. It had happened entirely by chance that this position had become vacant just as he was looking for something new. He had intended to go far away—Hanoi or Cape Town or anywhere, really. He spent a couple of months in Italy, but his fortune eventually landed on Switzerland, and for the last three years his existence had been nothing short of Spartan. Absolutely ideal as far as he was concerned. This is why he had chosen this profession. Everything in order.

Most days now would have been calm and predictable were it not for her. Camilla.  
He saw her in the hotel more frequently than usual. Or so it seemed. Perhaps he was more hyper-aware of her than he had been in the winter when she was just another lovely face in the crowd. She showed up maybe three times a month and stayed for a couple of nights. At first it was with the same gentleman, the unremarkable Mr. Van Houdt, about whom Jonathan could find hardly anything. It was customary to get to know regular guests, their likes and dislikes, so that the staff could anticipate their needs, but there was almost nothing about him online except the basics and he rarely spoke more than a few ordinary words to anyone. 

But then Camilla appeared in the company of other men. She sat for dinner with them, joined them for games in the tennis courts, disappeared into the spa with them, and then ultimately the two would stroll arm in arm to their shared suite.  
Well. It was none of his business anyway, Jonathan thought. We all have to make a living and we all do what is within our ability. It was not surprising, frankly, and all the more reason to pay no special attention to her unless it was necessary. 

Still, he couldn’t help but notice that she always stayed behind after her companion for the time had left. She was often found sitting at the bar by herself, looking over papers or typing messages into her phone. In those moments when she was alone, Camilla slipped into a different persona. It was difficult to say whether her reddish hair was dyed or not, but it was loosely styled away from her face as she read. Contact lenses were stashed away in favor of a pair of tortoise shell glasses which framed her soft face beautifully. No more cocktail dresses, only matching loungewear sets that covered her skin, but still skimmed the shape of her body. She had a habit of taping her long nails against the bar top when lost in a thought and pressing a finger tip against her brow bone whenever she paused to rest her eyes.

He had no interaction with her aside from occasionally providing his usual services of escorting guests to rooms and pouring glasses of wine. Every now and then, she would catch his gaze and give him a sweet, polite smile in return as if to remind him that she was the same affable woman he had helped months ago. 

The wandering eyes were his fault, Jonathan recognized. He wasn’t a man of strong vices, but he was aware of his weakness for women, a weakness that was rarely indulged. He admired them not only for their attractiveness, but for their grace and tolerance when faced with infinite injustice. To him, the charm of the fairer sex was one of the few things that remained pure and good about the world and when he looked at Camilla he could not help but be reminded that he had not been with a woman in a very long time. An image of Sophie Alekan would shake him and tell him that this was not a thought to be pondered over.

The work was distracting enough, though, and he spent a great deal of his time actively engaging visitors, overseeing the operations, or doing required office work. Despite the opulence of the hotel, the lobby was designed to look cozy and rustic, giving the guests the chance to play into the fantasy of a private cottage in the mountains. This is where he spent the bulk of his time, making himself visible and available. 

One late night in April, Jonathan stood at the reception desk alone while Fräulein Vipp stayed in the back office reading her novels to pass the time. The days were longer now, and so the hours close to midnight seemed not so late for the few guests lingering around, but Pine waited and watched them retire to their rooms one by one and by 2:00 there was no one in sight. Except, that was, for a woman alone at the bar.  
The more he tried to focus on the work in front of him, the more his gaze drifted to the side, fascinated by the feminine silhouette of Camilla sitting with her legs crossed, looking down at her phone, occasionally sipping on a cocktail that had already been watered down by melted ice. Octavio, the young Spanish bartender, was still on his feet, polishing glassware on his spare time as he’d been trained to do. Before Jonathan could think twice about it, he was striding purposefully across the lobby towards the bar. He didn’t quite understand why he was doing this—perhaps some irrational need to humanize a woman who seemed to be gradually turning into a myth in his isolated mind. 

“Vete a casa, Octavio. There’ll be no one else coming in tonight.”

“Are you sure, Herr Pine?”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it. Start the weekend early on me.”

“Thank you, Herr Pine.”

The bartender wrapped up in a hurry and Jonathan stepped into his place, putting the glasses away and closing out the register. For a few long minutes, he kept himself from asking if she would like another drink. 

“Hello.” She initiated conversation. 

“Hello.”

"Jonathan, yes?"

"Indeed, ma'am."

"Do you remember mine?"

"Of course, Camilla."

“Is it always this quiet at night?”

“Usually, yes, but especially this time of year.”

“The off season.”

“Precisely.”

“I heard you on the phone. Ihr Deutsch ist schon sehr gut.”

“Danke. Meine Mutter war Deutsche, aber ich hatte seit fünfundzwanzig Jahren kein Deutsch gesprochen.” He decided to share this trivial detail of his life. It was his go-to for any guest keen on making small talk. 

“Until you started working here, I assume.”

“Precisely.”

“Hmm. I’m working on improving mine also.”

The conversation could have ended there, but just as Jonathan was about to turn his back to her, Camilla spoke again. 

“But you’re English, right?”

“To the core.”

“Did you recognize the man at our table at dinner?”

Jonathan smiled genuinely, remembering the famous face he had seen earlier, sitting beside her and the young man she was spending the night with. 

“I did, yes. Alec Stewart.”

“Ah, I thought you might!” She exclaimed with radiant smile. “He’s a consultant for Declan’s club. That’s what he does, that one, he’s a cricketer. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

Jonathan clenched his jaw. _That one_ , implying that there were multiple. She knew that he knew what her business here was and she didn’t care enough to be subtle about it. 

“Yes, I did. It’s my job.”

Camilla nodded and rested her chin on the back of her hand. “I can tell. You always have the room set up just the way they want it. Always the right ambience, the right toiletries, even the down to the temperature.”

“We do the best we can,” he replied humbly, but secretly taking pride that his attention to detail had not gone unnoticed. He looked into her eyes and found them to be sincere; her voice, her face, her entire demeanor, in fact, was relaxed and exuding openness in sharp contrast to the humorless surroundings. This put Jonathan at ease enough to phrase a question in a way that may not be perceived as offensive. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you do know Herr Van Houdt, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I can’t seem to learn anything about him, really. It’s made it a bit difficult for my staff to accommodate him and to anticipate his needs now that he has become a regular at our hotel.”  
Camilla dropped her hand from her face and a smirk appeared on her lips as she thought Jonathan’s statement over.

“I’ve known Roger for a few years, actually. And what can I say? He’s a fifty-two-year-old businessman and he likes the same things any other fifty-two-year-old businessman would like. Expensive wine, expensive watches, football, golf, well-polished shoes. There’s not much to report. He prefers Tripel over other kinds of beers and I’ve heard him say the face soap leaves his skin a bit dry. I can tell you that much.”

“Easy fixes. Thank you.”

“It’s funny, I suggested that he use the moisturizing soap that comes in the lavender wrapper but he’s too proud to use ‘women’s products.’ Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Many men get self-conscious about that sort of thing. We can simply replace the purple wrapper with the green one. It’ll look identical.”

Camilla’s smile broadened into a grin that became a small chuckle. 

“Something funny?” Jonathan asked, beginning to smile himself in response to her infectious laugh.

“It’s just you really don’t need to make a fuss about him.”

“I don’t see it as making a fuss, just being meticulous with my work.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s only that…” She paused for a moment to choose her words. “I might as well just be honest with you—Roger comes to this hotel to cheat on his wife. He isn’t here to appreciate fine details and I just know he won’t care.” 

“Oh.”

Camilla ran her hands through her hair and parted it on the opposite side. “Sorry, maybe I’m being a bit too candid, but that’s the honest-to-God truth. I think that fact will be more useful to you than anything else.”

Jonathan raised his eyebrows and nodded once. Amused as he was by this exchange, by the fact that she had just aired her client’s dirty laundry and admitted to her own line of work in a sentence, he remained composed. “Probably so.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed by that.”

“Oh, not at all. It just seems a shame that sometimes things are disregarded. Not for my sake, but for the quality of guest’s stay.”

“You can’t win them all, Jonathan. But at least you can rest assured you’ve won me,” she said, looking at him with her shining, kind eyes. “I travel more than I am home nowadays and stay in many other hotels across Europe. This is one of the very best.”

The corners of Jonathan’s mouth rose involuntarily as if he had been complimented personally. 

“May I ask why that is?”

Camilla finished the rest of her drink in one sip, crunched the remaining bits of ice between her teeth and placed the empty highball glass on the bar top. 

“Excellent service,” she remarked simply, before gathering her things and wishing Jonathan a good night. He stood in place, his gaze following her across the room until she disappeared up the grand staircase. 

_Rest assured you’ve won me_. Here was someone who certainly knew how to keep a man at her disposal.


	3. Chapter 3

Soon enough, Jonathan became familiar with the rotation of men who had the honor of paying for Camilla’s company. There were the usuals— the dull, business-minded Mr. Van Houdt, of course, and Declan Barry, the established batsman whose middle-of-the-road career still afforded him the luxury of fine hotels and finer women. There was Russell Ali, a music producer whom Camilla had described as “kind and funny, but completely uncultivated,” and whom Jonathan had no trouble dazzling with the hotel’s many amenities. The most refined by far was Jamie Harrington, an Irish politician who, for obvious reasons, was incredibly private. Camilla had declared him “a fascinating person” and although the silver-haired man was entirely ordinary in appearance and mild in disposition, it was obvious to Jonathan that he was favored over the others. 

The youngest of the bunch was a Greek heir to a fortune by the name of Diomedes Argyris. He was a handsome, spoiled over-sharer with hard opinions, and hobbies that were “objectionable” as Camilla loved to describe anything that displeased her. She didn’t mind it, though, she’d claimed. It was part of her profession to be gracious toward people who didn’t deserve it and who had been catered to so much in their lives they couldn’t tell the difference between a forged smile and a genuine one. Jonathan understood this. It was a crucial part of his profession also. But he couldn’t shake the fact that Mr. Argyris rubbed him the wrong way; something about his slight frame and dark, arrogant eyes reminded him of a man he had known not too long ago—Freddie Hamid. No point in holding that against him, no point in even thinking of it, but there it was.

As it turned out, Camilla was more than willing to disclose harmless information about “her men” and fellow lodgers she was acquainted with in order to give Jonathan a helping hand. She seemed to enjoy it, in fact. It must have been a source of relief for her, someone who so clearly possessed great depth of character and yet was forced to associate with the shallowest people in the world. Compared to the other guests, she was inconspicuous in her manner and behavior and it occurred to Jonathan that this life of silently agreeing in conversation and never drawing attention to herself must wear her down a bit. She was a forthright person naturally, and although she led an incredible social life constantly surrounded by others, she never shone the way she did in the instances when they were alone, speaking one on one. Camilla had a lot to say, rarely anything scathing or contemptuous, but often observations underlined by a discerning sense of irony. She was a keen spectator of the world around her, but more than anything she was, as every great woman is, a student of male weakness. She understood men’s ins and outs, their insecurities, their secreted biases and fixations. There were no means of manipulating her, but although she had the ability to, it appeared that she was far too kindhearted to use her strengths against others. 

He barely knew her, and yet Jonathan felt a strange kinship with her, one that surpassed any degree of physical attraction, although he appreciated that part of it as well. Looking forward to seeing her again and smiling to himself when she made an appearance made him feel something close to human. 

But he had been down this road before and he liked to believe that he had learned from it. Without a second thought, a line was drawn. 

 

*

 

The early summer had now come and with it an influx of parties at the hotel ballroom. Tonight there was a wedding reception, a lavish affair even for the standards of the Meisters. Jonathan arrived just in time to hear the storm of stiletto heels clicking on the marble as the crowd moved from cocktails to dinner. 

It was a hectic event, but the maître d'hôtel had taken all the right steps and as hard as Jonathan was to please, he was satisfied with the effort. When there was nothing more for him to oversee and the evening had gone from fast-paced dancing to cigars and slurred conversation, Jonathan left the lights and murmur behind and stepped out onto the freshly cut grass surrounding the tennis courts for a smoke. The sky was black and full of stars and, as ever, a source of inner peace. 

“Herr Pine! Gratuliere!”

Jonathan turned abruptly and pulled the cigarette from his mouth to acknowledge the familiar voice approaching him. 

Teardrop diamonds hung from her ears and she wore an emerald-colored evening gown which she hiked up an inch as she stepped over the grass. She had never looked more radiant.  
“Oh—good evening.” He considered stomping out his cigarette, but decided it would be a waste. 

“May I ask what I’m being congratulated on?”

Camilla came to stand beside him close enough for Jonathan to notice the open back of her dress which revealed her smooth shoulder blades. Errant strands of hair that had fallen out of their styled chignon were draped across her face. The fading scent of her perfume still lingered.

“Everyone was commenting on what a lovely party it was. Great service, great food and drink, everything perfectly timed. You run a tight ship here.”

He gave the standard response. “We do the best we can, ma’am.” 

Camilla laughed softly at what had now become a bit of a joke between the two of them and Jonathan watched as she snapped opened the small gold clutch she carried in her hand.

“I wanted to catch up to you to see if you were interested in these,” she said, pulling out a tiny black velvet bag. “They were included in a fancy gift bag at some red carpet awards thing I went to with Russell last night.”

A pair of platinum cufflinks rattled out onto her palm. They were simple—in the form of shields with a black enamel bend sinister etched across—but certainly something of value. 

“You’d like me to have these?” Jonathan asked incredulously as she placed them into his hand. 

“Sure, I can’t think of anyone else who would make good use of them. I’ll tell you one thing: no one in the world gets more free stuff than rich people.”

“Hmm,” he made a sound in agreement. He examined the cufflinks again and then looked up at her, her glowing face flushed lightly from having a few drinks and her perfectly applied makeup beginning to blur at the edges. On an exciting night such as this, with so much buzzing going on in the periphery, how funny it was that she’d thought of him. It saddened Jonathan to think that a hint of warmth from another person was so rare and unexpected that he could treasure it so dearly. 

“Thank you, Camilla. This is very kind.”

Just then, a loud sound somewhere between a scream and a laugh was heard in the distance. A very young woman who appeared to be in that blissful state of drunkenness where nothing bothers you had broken the heel of one of her shoes while making her way back indoors and a small crowd gathered around to help her. The guests were merry and lighthearted and even Jonathan couldn’t help but smirk at the small mishap. 

Camilla didn’t seem so amused. “Another black-tie party, another debutante who can’t keep it together,” she said. “I’ve attended too many weddings, honestly. Don’t be surprised if I show up at yours.”

“I wouldn’t count on that happening again,” Jonathan replied abruptly. He had meant it as a follow up on the joke, but couldn’t deliver a chuckle after the words left his mouth. He should have said nothing at all, but his companion responded as quickly as she could to cut through the tension.

“I was married once also.” 

Jonathan put his cigarette back between his lips contemplatively. He locked eyes with her briefly and tried his best to look neither surprised nor unsurprised. She smiled at him as if it were nothing, but it was clear that she had not been prepared to say such a thing so suddenly. Her need to maintain an interesting conversation had gotten the better of her.  
“Believe it or not. I got married very young, to a man I truly loved, and it lasted nearly four years.”

Jonathan blew out a white cloud of smoke into the cool night. “Where is he now?”

“I’m not really sure. Happy, I assume, with a new wife and maybe a kid or two. That was the problem, really. It worked out beautifully at first; he was a classic over-achiever, graduated top of his class, became director of sales for this big company after only a few years on the job and I was able to keep doing what I love—study languages. He used to always brag about how clever and cultured I was and he really believed in us being this power couple. I believed in it too. We were equals in many ways, or so I thought.” She paused. “But really I wasn’t thinking at all. I knew from the very start that we wanted very different things out of life and that I could never bring myself to being a capable wife and mother. I tried to pretend otherwise, but to continue would have been far too unfair… to the both of us.” She paused again, this time long enough for him to respond, but Jonathan was committed to listening. “When he divorced me, the money disappeared. I was too proud to take anything from him—I don’t believe in that sort of thing. So I quit pursuing my doctoral degree, still living in an expensive city, unskilled to do anything other than translate on occasion.” 

Jonathan could see in her eyes that she had more to say, but she blinked away the emotion and held back. 

“Ah, what can you do. I’m sorry to be unloading all of this on you, Jonathan. Weddings are known to turn people nostalgic and maudlin.”

“No worries.” Jonathan was without judgment. Nothing of what Camilla had just said shocked him; the troubles that plague people are universal, that much he had learned in his life. But even though at one time he’d wished for Camilla to be more human in his eyes, he now, regretfully, hoped to reintroduce some distance. 

“So you’re a linguist.”

The label brought a spark back into her eyes. 

“I guess so. I almost was, anyway. I still teach a class twice a week, which is why I’m constantly back in Milan.”

“What’s your specialty?”

“Gallo-Italic languages. But I speak every modern Romance language, naturally. And I dabble here and there.”

Jonathan felt his tongue becoming heavy with the things he could contribute to this subject. He’d been interested in languages from a young age, always imitating the sounds and discovering interesting words that were untranslatable from one language to another. He could tell her about how French had been his best subject at school, how quickly he’d learned a substantial amount of Arabic in the military, and how he’d begun to pick up Kurdish after a shortage of translators threatened their operations. But no, he pushed himself to think of something else. 

“May I ask you a question?”

Camilla quirked an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you going to ask me how I got to do what I do?”

“Uhm, no,” replied Jonathan, although he would certainly have listened with interest to that topic. “I was going to ask why you always stay behind after your man has left.”  
Camilla took a moment to unravel her hair and comb it through with her fingers in a most effortless, picturesque way. “Part of the agreement—I don’t travel with them. It keeps a degree of separation between us, so the relationship remains professional.”

“And you find that’s very necessary?”

“Yes, otherwise things might begin to get out of hand. They get a little too comfortable and that breeds possessiveness, which I just find… objectionable.”

They instinctively laughed in unison at her choice of word. Now that they had spoken so many times, Jonathan was well aware that Camilla approached her role in high society with a sense of humor and banter was always welcome.

“I’m sure a great many things you’re asked to do could be considered objectionable,” he added in jest. So there, at least he had said that much. 

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

“Am I wrong?”

“You better believe it! These guys are pretty fucking unexciting.”

“Shame.”

“Not that it matters—some of the best sex I’ve ever had has been vanilla.”

“Hmm.”

“Sometimes all you need is a slow, intense fuck, right?”

 _Right_. The thought was impulsive, but he swallowed back the response. She had said it so casually and it occurred to Jonathan that she’d turned to face him, presumably to gauge his reaction. He looked back at her and simply raised one eyebrow in an ambiguous expression. _Whatever you say_. Maybe if they were somewhere less private or if she weren’t standing so close, then he wouldn’t have felt warmth surface on his face and he could play along more easily. He waited it out. 

“So, since you’ve learned of my double life, may I ask you what you did before this?”

“Two tours of Iraq,” Jonathan stated plainly and flicked the butt of the cigarette which had long since burned out to the ground. He reached inside the pocket of his suit jacket for a fresh one to light. 

“Oh. I have should have figured you were ex-military, you really do seem like a soldier. I won’t ask anything else.”

 _Good_ , Jonathan thought. It was impressive how quickly she picked up on things that caused others discomfort and how elegantly she backtracked. He wondered if he should say something more to not appear so somber, perhaps attempt to compliment her on her appearance in an innocent manner, if possible. 

A single bleep from Camilla’s phone excused him from having to apologize for making such uninteresting company. 

“Well, as expected, that’s Russell wondering where I am. Things must be getting boring for him.”

“It is a late night.”

“Not for you, I’m sure.”

“No, not for me,” Jonathan replied with a soft sigh, exhaling a trail of smoke.

He stood awhile longer after Camilla had disappeared thinking of how differently the conversation would have gone had she been a different woman and he a different man. 

 

*

 

The sound of a car alarm startled Jonathan awake at noon. He bolted up from his bed, eyes searching the surroundings frantically for the danger that was surely near. In the seconds it took him to realize it was nothing and drop the weight of his body back down onto the bed, he was already breaking out into a sweat. He’d figured at some point after the war these sort of terrors would abandon him, but years later they still came with no hope of ever stopping completely. His bare chest rose and fell and his heart pounded against his ribcage as he recovered and shook off the awful memories of things that seemed to have happened to someone else entirely. Certainly not to who he was now. 

Blinking quickly, he noticed two bright rays of sunlight marked across the length of his body. Jonathan rubbed a hand across his face, already rough with stubble, and decided that he would make an effort to fall back asleep rather than get up to readjust the curtains and possibly not return to bed again. 

He tried. The alarm had stopped after a minute, but an hour later he was still rolling from side to side, staring at the bare walls of his apartment listlessly, and hoping in vain that sleep would overcome him at any moment. His thoughts kept wandering back to the wedding, not to the event itself, but the aftermath of men in tuxedos striding through the lobby, their broad smiles and lively eyes, their overconfident voices. Not once in his life had Jonathan felt a real connection to that world of opulent masculinity, even if he had always been surrounded by it. For some reason it irked him now more than ever. He was being confronted by the allure of it, finding it more difficult to ignore or to draw comparisons to his own life. It was the freedom he coveted, the ability to remove oneself entirely from under the weight of responsibility or justice and to live only for the pleasure of living. 

The circumstances of Jonathan’s life had prevented him from ever being a man of pleasure; his lonely, volatile childhood caused him to be burdened by rigor at a later age. There had been a time when he was prone to outbursts and expressed confrontational behavior—his method of coping with tragedy and abandonment. As an adult, the emotional side of him was stifled; he’d learned to value stability, silence, and dignity above all things. What occurred in Egypt had nearly been enough to have him break through, to want something different, but instead he sought out only more of the same. 

It went without saying that there was hardly a reward for being dignified. The reward, if it existed, was being able to live with oneself. And then maybe, hopefully, good people would also recognize the good in you. 

Like Camilla. 

Jonathan breathed in deeply when her image reappeared in his mind as she looked the night before. He’d been putting off thinking about her, if only to spare himself the trouble to doing something out of the routine, but in the quiet of his bedroom it was coming back to him as a jumble of recent memories: the shimmering diamonds catching his eye, the hooded eyes, the dewy skin. The curve at the small of her bare back as she walked away from him, the hem of her dress ruffling the blades of grass. _A slow, intense fuck._

He turned to his other side, tossed the covers on and off, not knowing whether he was hot or cold. He fell onto his back again with eyes opened wide in a daze, looking at nothing. Almost as if moving on its own accord, his hand reached down to soothe the growing erection pushing against the fabric of his boxers. He only held it at first, placed a bit of firm pressure on it and felt the warmth increase and the blood pulse underneath the surface. He let go for a moment to test his resolve, but soon the hand was back again, gripping tightly and pulling once, twice, and then in a torturing slow rhythm that tightened every muscle in his body. Thoughts of Camilla under him, her arms draped over his shoulders and his fingertips digging into her hips, flooded his mind. He didn’t care—didn’t feel any guilt. In between this, he saw flashes of the low neckline of her dress with her breasts overflowing and the shape of her lips as she spoke, her pink tongue pressing against her teeth every time she laughed. If she only knew—god, she surely did—that he envied every man she was with, that he wished he could be with her in that way, greet her by pulling her in by the waist and kiss her neck as he had seen others do. And he could fuck her the way she wanted to be fucked. Build pleasure inside her until she begged for release. It had been a long time, yes, but he still had it in him. 

Jonathan remained completely silent through this, taking in swells of air through parted lips, but never grunting while he experienced the satisfying motion of his hand and the heat overwhelming his body. He ran down the length a few times, but stroked mainly over the aching head that was now leaking into his palm. The pace increased with urgency, as if there could be no time for indulgence. He jerked upwards suddenly and it was over; his only reaction a near inaudible gasp as his cock twitched in the grip of his fist and emptied into a mess. Only a second to catch his breath, then he stood up immediately and rushed toward the shower.

Jonathan was not eager to return to bed. He’d already lost track of how long he had spent standing in the shower, hot water splashing off his back. He found the sound of it soothing and in harmony with the numbness of his mind, so he stayed in place, feeling safe for the moment. But as he began to regain consciousness of his surroundings, a sickening feeling at the pit of his stomach threatened to send him into a panic. He washed his face to try to redirect his thoughts, but it did not cease. The walls of his life were closing in around him. He was doing nothing—letting the clock run out and waiting to see if this prison he had made for himself would ever collapse. There needed to be something more. Something.


	4. Chapter 4

_"You're not saying much tonight, Jonathan."_

_"I must let you know, you won't be seeing me here for a while."_

_"How ominous. Looking for a change of scenery?"_

_"Something like that."_

_"Going back home to England?"_

_"I'm not sure England is home anymore."_

_"That doesn't answer the question."_

_"Oh, I just need serious time off. I don't know if I'll travel or visit friends or stick around."_

_"That's good, you certainly work hard enough."_

_"That I do."_

_"Smell the roses, read good books, maybe start dating again?"_

_He chuckled, took a drag of his cigarette and looked out into the starry night. "Who knows."_

 

***

 

How long had it been since Jonathan Pine? Maybe a year. It was Jack Linden for a time, then Thomas Quince. And now? Andrew Birch. 

He liked the earlier reincarnations of himself better, he had to admit. At the time there had been something liberating about not being Jonathan. No strict routine, no one to attend to, no paperwork or staff training. He read and he cooked and he completed the assignments given to him through calls at random times of the day. He embraced the routine and the tasks needed for his preparation completely and he understood that this practical ability to easily alter his lifestyle and persona had been the reason he’d been chosen by British intelligence for this job. Angela Burr, in all her wisdom, valued something in him that he did not value in himself.

But now he was in the deep end, layer upon layer of deceit adding up, forcing his identity to take on an utterly foreign shape. Andrew Birch was the face of Tradepass, a shell company used as a front for Richard Roper’s weapons dealings. 

Richard Onslow Roper. The man fueling the fires of war in the Middle East. The man who ordered the murder of Sophie Alekan in the Nefertiti Hotel, causing Jonathan to flee his former life. That name had haunted him for years, so much so that on the blizzarding night Roper swept into the Meisters and for the first time appeared in the flesh, the notoriously levelheaded night manager had barely held his composure. 

As much as he tried to force himself to continue with his secluded existence, he couldn’t stay away. Who, in good conscience, would have been able to? Reluctant as he had been at first to accept Burr’s offer of going undercover and infiltrating Roper’s inner circle, he knew it could only be him. Whether he liked it or not, he had long been involved, and it seemed that his entire life before this had been preparation for this mission. From the beginning he understood that his life would once again become unimaginably dangerous, but his skill set was rare and entirely necessary for the task of taking down Richard Roper. If anything, his deeply held anger would energize him and serve as a constant reminder of why he had made this sacrifice. 

They’d docked in Málaga only this afternoon and already Andrew was expected to socialize with Roper’s friends and associates—part of the “homework” he’d been assigned. There was no need for this, really. It was only for the sake of making it seem like Roper hadn’t played favorites by choosing Andrew as his right hand, which was exactly what he had done. 

This was described to him as a quick retreat before preparing for the trip to Istanbul where they would seal the deal on the purchase of weapons. How many and of what caliber and what profit they stood to make he didn’t know. Not yet. 

All he had to worry about as he unpacked his clothes in the bedroom of his private bungalow was the night ahead. So far he’d succeeded in presenting the unruffled demeanor of a man who had gotten to where he was simply by chance. Not even Roper’s skeptic henchman, Lance Corkoran, could pin him down. Jonathan smiled to himself as he thought about the contempt with which Corky treated him—of all people he could sense something was wrong, and although his suspicions were entirely precise, no one bought into them. Jonathan had made sure of that. Watching Corky struggle with being cast aside and routinely drink himself into a stupor would have made him feel a bit guilty had he not recognized how perfectly willing that leery little man was to do the devil’s work. Every war had casualties and if Corky ended up being one in the war Jonathan was waging, so be it. 

Casual dress for tonight, that’s what he’d been told. A light blue linen shirt and chinos laid out on the bed. He combed through his hair with his fingertips and dabbed a few drops of cologne into his neck. 

Facing those men would be a challenge. He wouldn’t be surprised if he recognized a face or two, from Switzerland, from the sailing club in Cairo, perhaps even from school. Of course they would not recognize him. Men who held every single possible privilege on Earth and instead of lifting their fellow man chose to either willfully ignore the suffering of others or contribute to it; he’d rubbed elbows with the type so much he knew them better than he knew himself. Or perhaps he was one of them already and only didn’t see it. He thought of this often, and he knew that he would think of it again as they congratulated each other over wine. Masters of the universe.

But all of that resentment belonged to Jonathan, not to the man snapping on the gold watch his boss had given him to wear. Andrew was a different species of man—less polished and somehow more stylish, intelligent and civil, but not in the least bit uptight. He was the man of the moment.

 

*

 

“Andrew!” he heard his name being called by the chief’s unmistakable voice. Roper stood by a high top table across the room, drink in hand, beside a shorter dark-haired man. 

It seemed everyone at this soirée was dressed in whites and blues, the uniform of the yacht club elite. Andrew fit in with the sea of homogeneity, although all evening he’d been receiving glances from those who did not recognize the new commanding face in the crowd. But being seen with Roper had made him the belle of the ball, and he was roped into conversations all around the room by curious men and women with wandering eyes. He excused himself from his latest exchange of pleasantries to answer the chief’s call. 

Roper pulled Andrew into his circle with a pat on the back. 

“I’d like you to meet Fausto Saavedra, one of our long-time legal advisors. Fausto here might be taking on some of Apo’s work since he has become… unavailable to us recently.” 

Andrew reached out for a firm handshake. “A pleasure, sir.” 

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Birch. I have been hearing about your company’s new venture all night.”

He glanced over to the woman next to the Spaniard, clearly the man’s date. She was half turned to the side and looking down at something in her purse. His chest tightened and his stomach flipped. It took every bit of muscular control to not jump back in surprise, and he hoped to god there had been no involuntary, perceptible difference in his face.

“Ma’am,” he choked out quietly with a tilt of the head.

Camilla looked up and gave a courteous smile as if she were greeting a complete stranger. She nodded once in acknowledgement and turned away again, leaving the conversation to the men. Jonathan shifted his eyes back to Mr. Saavedra, who had asked him a question he had heard, but not processed quickly enough.  
“Uh, no, this is actually my first time in Málaga,” he answered just in time. “No complaints so far.” 

He made sure to end the statement with a broad, charming smile as he had been the whole night, but this time his jaw was clenched with tension that he could feel straight through his teeth. He so desperately wanted to have another glance and make sure his eyes had not deceived him. Of course they hadn’t. It was her. 

From the periphery of his vision he watched Camilla retreat slowly into the background as he made small talk with Saavedra and laughed at Roper’s off-putting jokes. 

“You sail, Mr. Birch?” Saavedra asked in his soft Spanish voice. 

“I’ve been known to on occasion.”

“Of course he sails; wouldn’t trust a man without sea legs!” Roper chimed in. “You used to row as well, didn’t you, Andrew?”

“I did at one time.”

“Then I hope you will join us for a quick race tomorrow. Just to test the waters,” the lawyer said.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Jonathan took a sip of his drink and had a good look at Saavedra, from his shiny black shoes to his shiny black hair. He was maybe ten years older than Jonathan. He had gentle eyes and a sort of unintimidating aura that could have made him appear effete were it not for his measured way of speaking. So this was one of Camilla’s men. A new one.

He felt rather ridiculous for experiencing a pang of old jealousy at the thought. It was the same uneasiness he felt around Roper and his girlfriend, the young and beautiful Jed. But he blamed this all entirely on his ongoing loneliness and pushed it aside to focus on the potential trouble ahead.

Could Camilla’s presence compromise him? What did she know aside from the fact that he was a hotel manager in Switzerland? Roper already knew that. Jonathan drifted in and out of the conversation he was having, one minute speaking as Andrew, the next minute thinking up a furor of scenarios for dealing with this unexpected predicament. He could say nothing, do nothing. But then what if she said something to Saavedra? Would she be inconsiderate enough to identify him as Jonathan Pine? Surely she wouldn’t. If ever he could trust someone to be tactful, it would be her.

Jonathan took any quick opportunity to glance over the other men’s shoulders, his eyes searching the room as subtlety as possible for any sign of Camilla. 

He felt a grip on his shoulder. “How’s that drink treating you, old boy?” Sandy Langbourne asked right beside his ear. Jonathan didn’t look back at him, but smiled on instinct as he was now accustomed to. “Very well. Thank you for the recommendation.”

“Kind of you to join us, Sandy,” Roper greeted him. “Did you run out of skirts to chase?”

Sandy chuckled and then they all did. How disgusting to turn a man continually betraying his wife into a joke. Lord Langbourne was loyal to no one but Roper and he reveled in being callous. Big mistake, seeing that his hysterical wife had been such an easy target for mining information. At least Roper was clever enough to be kind to Jed.

He watched as Sandy pushed his hands into his pocket and from it pulled a cigar, undoubtedly rare and expensive. 

“Gentlemen, more of these await you in the cellar. Care to come along?” 

Roper and Saavedra were quickly in agreement and began to hand their half-empty drinks off to waiters. 

“And you, Andrew?” Sandy asked. 

Andrew showed a regretful look. “I’ve given up smoking, I’m afraid,” he said, excusing himself from the fraternity. 

Roper turned to look at him like a proud father. “Honestly, Andrew, do you take any pleasure in life at all?”

They exchanged chummy looks. Jonathan knew that his respectable lifestyle, or at least the appearance of it, was one of the things Roper admired in him. Dicky Roper was a man concerned with image, and the clean-cut, trustworthy semblance of Andrew Birch was of use to him. Andrew was not like Sandy or Corky. He was dignified. He didn’t fuck around. 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind another drink,” Andrew said. 

“And you shall have it. But not with us, apparently.” Roper titled his chin to point out the three young women who had been eyeing Andrew from the bar. The girls giggled when he finally returned the look. “There’s always some competition for your attention, isn’t there, my boy?”

He shrugged and Roper walked away with the other men after reminding Andrew that they would leave in half an hour. 

Without hesitation, Jonathan walked past the giggling girls and ignored whatever it was they had murmured in Spanish—he wasn’t interested. He swung around to the other side of the bar and ordered another of the same. From here he had a different view of the surroundings and his eyes darted from side to side to scout a glimpse of Camilla, but no luck. The minutes seemed to pass slowly. 

When he finally decided to walk the perimeter of the party, Jonathan was not counting on anything going his way.

“Mr. Birch, is it?”

He stopped dead in his tracks. The voice he wanted to hear, but for some reason dreaded to hear. His past was still alive. 

Jonathan turned slowly toward her, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. She was standing aside by the doors that led into the kitchen. Tired waiters in black ties walked in and out. 

"I almost didn't recognize you with your collar undone and your sleeves rolled up," she said. 

No hello, no greeting of any kind. Jonathan could feel himself losing his swagger, Andrew fading into nonexistence. Suddenly he was unconformable with his appearance; the tanned skin, the ruffled hair, the expensive watch. He blinked once to readjust his character before approaching her and speaking.

"Is that so? I recognized you immediately," he responded awkwardly.

"Naturally."

The atmosphere was tense. Everything had gone smoothly so far today; he’d been in top form. Then she’d appeared only to trip him up. But looking at her standing inches from him with her back against the wall Jonathan felt as though he should be grateful to have the pleasure of seeing her again. She was slightly overdressed for the event, perhaps at the request of her male companion. A nude fitted cocktail dress perfectly matched to the shade of her skin and matching heels that framed the high arches of her feet. Her hair seemed a more vibrant red and had grown past her shoulders. She was even more devastating than he remembered. 

"Mr. Birch,” she repeated again, still with a stinging tone. “What do you think you’re doing?"

"What do you mean?" he asked coolly. 

"You're far too decent a man to be at the under the wing of the likes of Dicky Roper. But I could be wrong, never got to know you that well, come to think of it."

Whatever she knew, it was enough that Jonathan felt his face burn under her stare, a clear sign of her lowered opinion of him. He was surprised to realize that this judgment of character affected him so keenly. 

"Why would you say that about Roper?"

"I'm sure you know why."

“How can you be sure that I’m sure?”

“Don’t act dumb, _Andrew_. Isn’t it enough that you’ve been acting dumb around your friends all night?”

“I should ask you the same question, ma’am.”

It was a dig—a very personal dig. Jonathan felt badly about it almost immediately, but Camilla only raised her eyebrows in a touché sort of way. She didn’t care what he thought of her. Never did. 

“Having fun being the center of attention at least?” she said, quickly looking down at her phone. Her eyelashes were made-up dark and heavy in a way that didn’t suit her. 

“There are worse things.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” It appeared she was irritated by his presence. So why had she bothered even speaking to him?

“Why did you walk away from the party?”

She didn’t answer. "I think I saw you well before you saw me," she told him instead. 

Another waiter squeezed around them. 

"I'm sure. I only realized it was you when we were face to face."

"Frankly, I was shocked. When they put in a replacement for you at the Meisters, I thought you must have fallen off the face of the Earth. You were so devoted to that job, like you didn't think of anything else."

"And now I'm devoted to this job."

"And what job is that?"

Jonathan didn't have a chance to deflect the question. He could feel eyes on him, watching from a distance. Maybe one of Roper's thugs making sure he didn't speak to the wrong people. Despite his best logical efforts, he’d found himself increasingly worried about this sort of thing. Maybe he wasn’t in the clear just yet, maybe they were still testing him.

“Laugh,” he told her as he brought the rim of the glass to his mouth for another drink. 

“What?”

“Laugh. Or at least smile at me.” Jonathan grinned in contrast to his serious tone. 

Camilla looked at him with confusion. She glanced to the side, trying to locate a reason for the strange request, but nothing seemed to click. “Are we being watched?” she finally asked. 

Jonathan smiled even more broadly and nodded. “Oh yes.”

She went along with it, smiling nervously at first, but then fully and almost genuinely, as if the ridiculousness of the situation was truly funny to her. But she was also slowly catching on, he could tell. He couldn’t stay long, so this had to play out right. 

"If you’re worried about Fausto, don’t be,” Camilla said. “He’s the type that gets off on dangling his girls in front of other men.”

“It’s not him I care about,” Jonathan replied. She certainly knew this had nothing to do with her date, though it was interesting to learn that fact about Saavedra. Roper was that type also.

“Ok,” Camilla stated, still somewhat puzzled. For a moment, neither knew where to go from here. 

“Are you going to the impromptu boat race tomorrow?” she asked as if it mattered. 

“Are you?”

“A resounding no. I get seasick easily.”

“I see,” he said. Now they were onto something.

Camilla flipped her hair away from her face. “Besides, Fausto will leave for Madrid right after, so what’s the point of me waiting around for him by the marina if we won’t spend any time afterward.”

 _Andrew!_ The name was called out in a strong but not very loud voice. They both looked up to see Lord Langbourne in his grey checkered jacket standing tall in the near distance. After getting Andrew’s attention, Sandy winked his left eye. It was his way of saying _the chief wants you_.

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me," he said to Camilla while simultaneously signaling at Sandy that he had gotten the message.

Camilla pushed her lips into a crooked smile. "Yes, maybe another time." She took a drink. 

Jonathan bit the corner of his cheek and nodded once.

"Yes," he said firmly, looking into her glistening eyes to see if they were on the same page. They were. 

He sighed, reluctantly turned away, and tried to take quick strides to cross the room, but got caught up within the mass of bodies at the center. So many humans, so little humanity. The night would have been vastly improved if he could have spent it talking to Camilla. But then what would he say? Can’t trust anyone at a time like this, he reminded himself. The lie was too important for the truth to show through. He would have some thinking to do during the sleepless hours of the night.

He reached Sandy and the two made their way towards an exit, but the older man did a double take looking back at Camilla, who was now standing alone, pretending to talk on her phone. 

“You like her?” he said to Andrew. He still sounded like the posh schoolboy he must have been forty years ago. 

“She seems friendly.”

Sandy threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “Yes, I hear she can be _very_ friendly, old boy.”

Andrew laughed along, his right hand clenching into a tight fist beside him.


	5. Chapter 5

Andrew Birch’s excuse for not sailing was a hangover, which Roper and company bought without question. Although he’d shown little sign of drunkenness the night before, he had certainly managed to make four drinks seem like eight by consistently having one in hand. Wasn’t up for being on the water at the moment, he said. We’ve all been there, they said. 

He came out to the driveway, arms folded and eyes unfocused like someone not feeling their best self, to wish the chief luck and good times. To his relief, both of Roper’s oafish bodyguards jumped into cars and followed the motorcade headed to the marina, leaving Andrew alone to recover presumably until the evening.  
Once the coast was clear, Jonathan began to make his was across the resort grounds. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing, only that he needed to find Camilla, if it meant searching every bit of the miles of property. The place was mostly empty; an occasional groundskeeper or chambermaid walking from one job to the next. It was a beautiful day for the beach and the sea, and so there everyone had gone.

For the first time in a long time, Jonathan could declare that he felt comfortable. He felt safe. This environment reassured him and he took confident steps as he walked from one corner to the next, stopping briefly and looking around from behind his sunglasses.  
The grass was being watered. The earthy scent mixed with the salt of the Mediterranean. Everything looked impeccable. Jonathan was almost tempted to make a trip to the main lobby and leave written comments complimenting the staff as he remembered how much that sort of thing used to mean to him. He would write a thank you note to the maid and tip her well, but for now he needed to not dwell on the lovely swaying of the palm trees.

Not long past fifteen minutes into his walk, Jonathan began to feel the sun too harshly on his skin and sought out the poolside veranda of one of the smaller buildings on the property. There was swim-up bar that was unstaffed on the opposite end of the pool and two perfect-looking young women in bikinis sat beside it, mostly submerged, kicking their feet up through the clear water while they had a conversation. They saw Jonathan and smiled at him. He smiled back.

Jonathan rested his elbows on the railing and watched them for a moment, but this guilty pleasure was cut short by the realization that another perfect-looking woman was walking towards him. The neckline of a sky blue sundress fell down off her shoulders and she was barefoot, a pair of strappy sandals hooked into the fingers of her right hand. Once again, Camilla had spotted him before he had seen her. She moved without hurry and lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head. Jonathan removed his. Before stepping from the grass onto the scorching stone surface, she paused to slip into her shoes. Just as she came into the veranda and approached Jonathan without a greeting, the two women rose out of the pool, water glistening and dripping from their skin as they exited without drying their bodies. They walked past, apparently heading towards their rooms.

“How old do you think they are?” Camilla asked once they had gone. 

Jonathan blinked quickly. He couldn’t even claim to have given a quick thought to what circumstances led those girls here, what they were doing, who they were waiting for. They seemed decorative. Part of the luxurious landscape. That worried him.

“Couldn’t say.”

Camilla shook her head. “They’re younger than they look, you can be sure of that.”

They both stared quietly at the gleaming, still water. 

"Do you feel bad for them?" she followed up. 

"Yes."

"You should. Don't feel bad for me, though. I'm far more privileged then they are. I have my choice of men. Like the one that brought me here—your new friend—I’ll never see him again."

"Why is that?"

"I shouldn't even be seeing you. Couldn't resist the temptation to be confrontational."

"You're here to confront me?"

"More to shame you, really. But I realize it's all in vain.” She looked away, almost straight into the sun so that her eyes squinted. “He that lieth down with dogs…”

Jonathan controlled his breathing. He felt a burning sensation trapped in his chest that told him that this could be something good. There was anger and regret in her voice, a quiet desperation in the way she pulled her eyes away from him, not able to face the situation head on. She was anxious because of him and now he because of her. 

“Camilla, you have to tell me what you know,” he said as plainly as he could. 

“I don’t think so, no.”

This was the time to make a move.

“Even if you hadn’t planned on saying anything, you’ve come here because you want me to know that you’re onto us. You want to shake me up a bit. See that I realize that not everyone is dazzled by the glamour, that someone out there knows the truth. You want me to live with that, don’t you?”

Camilla stared blankly at him with tension in her lips. She hated being dissected like this. “So you recognize that what I know would be very bad news for you.”

“No. No harm done to me.”

“At the very least it wouldn’t be good for Roper. Don’t worry, though, I’m not an idiot. I know what he’s capable of. I wouldn’t risk saying anything.”

“But I might.”

The woman seemed startled, not that Jonathan would have expected anything less. She forced herself to meet him face to face again, to try to gauge his honesty, and he gladly returned the look. Prudence no longer had a purpose in this game. 

“You sound as if you’re planning on betraying him.”

“I’m already betraying him.”

When she said nothing, he began again. “You need to tell me what—“ 

“No, you go first,” she replied sharply. “Tell me what the fuck you’re doing here. Who are you—who’s Andrew Birch? Why are you worried about them watching you?”

Jonathan knew what he had to do and he was prepared for it. With a steady voice, he told her everything. He told her about the many lives and the masks he’d worn and was still wearing. He told her, without actually giving a name, about Angela Burr. How Roper’s arrival at the Meisters on a winter’s night had changed his life for good. He omitted the story of Sophie Alekan for personal reasons, but he referred to a murder at the Nefertiti Hotel as the origin of all of this. 

Camilla looked at him wide-eyed as he spoke, but not with disbelief. Things were falling into place for her and though her face was marked with intense shock, the expression was slowly warming toward Jonathan, with that open look of empathy that he once held dear. It felt as though the more he spoke, the more they synchronized their thoughts, and soon enough he was speaking without hesitation. The honesty was strange in its power to reward Jonathan with an immediate sense of humanity—it was liberating. 

“So, Roper doesn’t know about your military service?” she interrupted. “Wouldn’t they consider that a government connection?”

He shook his head. “They know about that. Trust me, they dug up everything about me that they could possibly find before adopting me into the family. They just don’t have a clear picture of the time between Zermatt and now. Like I said, as far as Roper is concerned, I’m an over-educated thug who wasn’t fit for low-level crime, got burned once, and went on the run. But he saw potential in me. I’m his pet project."

Camilla nodded that she understood. 

“Saavedra is a replacement for a man named Juan Apostol,” said Jonathan. “Have you heard that name before?”

“No. Wait—yes. I’ve seen it in print.”

“Apostol was the legal mind of Roper’s team, but he hasn’t made an appearance in some time. Makes one wonder.”

A look of concern crossed her face. “Wonder what?”

“How they found out that Apostol was leaking information to our operation.”

“Oh. Do you—will they figure…”

“No, they don’t suspect a thing about me so far,” he said, skipping over the Corkoran problem. He’d taken care of that well enough. Now there was something else entirely, something that could prove to be more trouble. “But I think I’m walking a very fine line lately. At least one person is trying to put their finger on it. They don’t know what it is or how I’m doing it, but I’ve allowed them to get too close.”

“Who is it?”

“Umm, Jed. Roper’s girlfriend.”

Camilla raised an eyebrow. “The tall one. Short, blonde hair.”

“You’ve met her before?”

“I saw her from afar one time,” she said with a bit of unbecoming amusement in her speech. “She’s gorgeous. Looks like a model.”

“She’s an equestrian,” Jonathan said abruptly, trying to counter the shallow description. Seeing Camilla’s reaction, however, made him wince. 

“Don’t tell me you slept with her,” she said. 

“No. I wouldn’t do that.” 

He was telling the truth; he hadn’t slept with Jed. It was the second part of the statement that he couldn’t quite convince himself of. 

“Make sure you don’t.” She had no-nonsense tone could cut to anyone’s core and Jonathan was keen to move on from the subject. Whether or not he was a man of perfect morals was not relevant here; he would do what he did, whether it was unwise or not, always with great care. Much as he was doing now, talking to someone he thought he would never see again and wouldn’t have wanted to involve in this web of evil. But now that she was here, it was time for her to speak. 

“So.” He left the word suspended in midair. The rustle of the palm trees calmed and the sudden lack of breeze made the heat feel more severe. 

Finally, Camilla lowered her gaze and braced both of her hands on the railing. A few deep breaths to gather her thoughts. 

“He’s pathetic. Fausto, I mean. Like a kid that never got to sit with the popular crowd. The one that never got the pretty girl to pay attention to him. It’s a shame, really. I honestly thought he’d be one of the good ones. Never married, no children, hard-working, polite. Men always let you down in the end.”

She fell quiet and Jonathan waited with great anticipation for her to go on. 

“The third time we met for a date he was so eager to tell me about how an important client of his was having him do work of more significance. It meant he would make at least twice as much money, have more free time, and get to travel more often. Sounds great, I told him. He asked me if I’d like to accompany him on a few business trips and of course I agreed.”  
She straightened her neck and lifted her eyelashes to match the boldness of her voice. “Later, out of curiosity, I did a bit of research on Richard Roper because I was certain I’d heard of him before, but I wasn’t quite sure what his business was. Nearly an hour later, I still wasn’t sure. Everything you could find on him seemed to be the product of a well-crafted public image. There were pictures of him with heads of state and videos about his humanitarian work, but nothing of substance. He was an attractive man, though—clever, articulate. I decided not to care about it anymore. I went to the parties. I saw Roper in person, and he was nothing short of a gentleman… but I kept having this nagging feeling. They wouldn’t talk business at the dinner table for some reason. Every man I see has absolutely no problem rambling on with their pals, excluding the women from the conversation and making everyone who isn’t in their circle feel like outsiders. It’s such a natural thing for men of a certain type to do that I wouldn’t expect anything else. This was different. The more it went on the more uncomfortable I felt. For the first time since I’ve been doing this I had a hard time not asking questions.”

It occurred to Jonathan that he was more nervous listening to her now than he had been when he’d willingly blown his cover just moments ago. He’d been in on it for so long and now he was almost reliving the shock of discovery. 

“Before this trip, I met Fausto at his flat in Madrid so he could take me out to the most obscenely expensive night club in the city. I was putting on my make up in the bedroom and I could hear him pacing the corridor just outside. He was on a phone call. Speaking rather seriously in Galician, which is his language. Well, I just couldn’t keep my nose out of it. I came a few steps closer to the door and listened in on this bizarre conversation. He was talking about file encryption and how essential it was to his new business; that he need an advanced level of security from now on and he was willing to pay a high fee for it. For what, I wondered. He’s a lawyer, I understand he keeps sensitive information, but it sounded like he was reaching out to someone who provides exclusive software to governments and banks. Just then, Fausto swung the door open and walked into the room and I did my best to not look jumpy, but what surprised me the most is that he didn’t stop speaking. He kept going, pacing by the foot of the bed, completely confident that I couldn’t understand what he was saying anyway.”

Jonathan nearly smiled upon hearing this. The old pretending not to know the language con. He was incredibly familiar with it and it never failed to pay off. 

“I stared at myself in the mirror and carried on,” she continued. “He mentioned a company called Tradepass registered in Cyprus and Switzerland, and investors who stand to double their money very quickly. The only thing is, they can’t know what it is the company does. They’re really investing on the word of Richard Roper, whom they trust. If they found out, even suspected for a minute, they would certainly want no part in it. Any document or communication that states the actual dealings of Tradepass from his end has to be encrypted, he said. And if he was satisfied with the new software, he would ensure that the entire business would upgrade to it. When the call ended, he came up to me, kissed me on the shoulder and asked me to try to be ready in twenty minutes. It was then I noticed the phone he’d been using was black, not in a silver case like his regular phone. I was convinced that I had stumbled onto something very sinister.” 

She paused to let out a slow exhale. 

“I spent the rest of the night feeling sick, skin crawling with anxiety, wondering what these men were up to while pretending to have a good time. Fausto isn’t cut out for late night partying as much as he would like to be, so he went to bed as soon as we returned to the flat. But I couldn’t sleep a wink. I slid out of bed and sat out in the balcony looking at my phone aimlessly in the dark, wondering why I was feeling this way without proof of anything—if I was paranoid over nothing. The only solution was to find the truth.”

“So what did you do?”

Camilla tapped her fingernails pensively, as he had seen her do many times. 

“He shouldn’t have put all of his keys in the same chain. They were on the coffee table. I bunched them up tightly in my hand so they wouldn’t rattle and found the one that matched the cabinets next to the desk. The entire time my heart was pounding in my chest and I wondered what I would do if he woke up and discovered me in his office. I didn’t have the chance to find out. For a good half hour, I rummaged through his files completely undisturbed and I came across some papers stamped with a Tradepass logo in an unmarked folder. Several different logos, in fact. It was a brainstorming session for building a company that trades agricultural hardware; why be secretive about that? I dug deeper and found account summaries. Insane amounts of money being invested. Next, a binder full of legalese signed by someone named Apostol. I recognized Fausto’s handwriting on the margins, amending certain lines with his own thoughts and referencing Richard Roper. I read page after page of this—practically an outline for circumventing international laws. But what I found next really turned my stomach. Foreign correspondence, some in Arabic, some in English, with inventory lists attached. Each letter thanking Roper for his good business. Armored vehicles, artillery, assault rifles, chemical weapons.” 

Her voice was shaky. She placed both hands on her face and dragged them down her temples and jawline to calm down. 

“If I could have suffocated Fausto Saavedra in his sleep that night and gotten away with it, I would have. Instead I took pictures of every single incriminating document I could find, saved them to my laptop and deleted them from my phone. That’s the card I have to play.”

This was it. Jonathan felt excitement and panic at the thought of what kind of information she had compiled. Perhaps the names of dozens of more people involved in this scheme, any of which could be a weak link, any of which could be deposed from their own corrupt organizations, saving more lives. He’d found some balance sheets in Roper’s office himself which had been huge revelations, but this, coming from the chief’s legal advisor, could be straight evidence of criminal deals in several countries. 

“And how were you planning to play it?”

She sighed. “Try to hand it over to British intelligence. Something.”

Jonathan grit his teeth. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

“You do that and Roper will be immediately informed, just as he was about Apostol. We don’t know how many he has in his pocket, but the River House is not on our side on this one. I don’t work for them; I work for Burr, who is the only person in the world with the resources, and more importantly, the courage, to try to put an end to this.” His voice had involuntarily risen in the middle of this sincere explanation and he took a moment to bring it down. “I’m the only foot soldier in this operation. So you understand what you must do.” 

Camilla’s expression didn’t change. She’d made her decision at an earlier time in the conversation, that much was clear. She would need no further convincing. 

“My flight to Milan isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. I can meet you any time before then.” 

Jonathan looked down at his watch. He had things to take care of before the team returned and business meetings this evening were mandatory. It wasn’t clear when exactly they would be back, but he was sure a knock on his door from either Tabby or Frisky asking how he was doing would let him know.

“You’ll have to meet me sometime after dinner at the club. It’s a garden party tonight, lots of people and we’ll all be outdoors. You just need to make your way through the crowd, make contact with me briefly and then you can be on your way.”

“What time?”

“Before twenty-three hundred, let’s say.”

Camilla, possibly charmed by Jonathan’s militaristic mannerisms, suppressed a small smile and agreed to the plan. She looked calm and decisive, more so than Jonathan had expected. He didn’t know whether to be more relieved or concerned. 

“I just want to say one more thing to you.”

“What is it?”

“You don’t have to do this. I desperately want you to, but please know that I am constantly in danger and I won’t be able to protect anyone who helps me. It’s your decision whether you actually give this information to me or not.”

She looked at him, nothing changing except for maybe a hint of sadness clouding her eyes, and spoke softly. “You’ve been to war, Jonathan. You know what harm these weapons can do.”

Her words echoed what Angela Burr had said to him in Switzerland many months ago, what sparked his ethical fury and made him join the fight. It was proof of Camilla’s commitment to this on grounds of human decency and he was pleased to hear it. 

“Right,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

Jonathan took the sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar and pushed them back over the bridge of his nose as he went out into the blinding daylight of high noon. His mind was racing, but he wouldn’t let it show. He looked back once, to see if the woman had walked away, but she still stood where he’d left her, perfectly still, like a sculpture. Real and surreal. Both flesh and not.


	6. Chapter 6

It was getting late and no sign of her yet. Jonathan stopped himself from glancing down at his watch, which he had been doing increasingly. No need to attract any questions. The party was as crowded and drawn out as he’d expect it to be, but the weather had cooled down a bit and being outdoors in a jacket was for once a pleasant experience. 

Ever the raconteur, Dicky Roper was entertaining his circle with stories from his travels with his family along the Caspian Sea. Everyone was intrigued, or at least gave the impression of being so, but Jonathan had heard all of this before. In fact, hearing Roper tell cheery anecdotes about his young son was rather sickening. Jonathan gazed at the paper lanterns above distractedly—white and gold orbs of light suspended delicately in the air. He would feel peaceful right now, he thought to himself, if only. 

This time, he saw her first. A sigh of relief. She was still wearing the same sundress, which now appeared a cooler tone in the dimmed light, but she had made up her face and added jewels and high heels. The sight of her made Jonathan smile into the pint glass pressed against his lips. As he wandered away from the group, he kept looking directly at her, following her red hair as she floated through the garden, enjoying the idea of her searching for him. When their eyes finally met, the two made movements synchronously, pulled closer together by purpose, by obligation, by the other’s encouraging energy. 

“Nice suit, Mr. Birch.”

Jonathan looked down at his navy-clad body and dusted his lapel. “Thank you. I paid for it myself.”

She chuckled at that. They exchanged a few more lighthearted remarks and Jonathan tried to call over a waiter to bring Camilla a drink. She turned it down. 

“I hope I didn’t worry you,” she said.

“Not too badly.”

Jonathan could feel her discomfort and her desire to hurry things along, but he could not press her. After a few silent seconds, she discretely unclasped the favorite gold clutch she always carried to parties. Her hand went in and quickly out, letting go of whatever she’d been holding. Someone was approaching them. In a swift moment of panic, Camilla gathered herself to leave, but just as she turned, a hand reached out and grabbed her firmly by the forearm.

“Stay,” said the voice of Sandy Langbourne. 

Jonathan felt his fight instinct trigger inside him. A flash of images went rapid-fire in his mind—his fist striking Langbourne’s cheek, clenched teeth, bloodied clothes. He’d sized up Sandy a long time ago—he could take him. But how could he get out of something like this? He could do nothing but remain frozen in place, racing to think of how this had happened. He’d been careless, of course. And now they had him. There’d be no explaining, no sweet-talking to be done if even a small piece of the conspiracy had been figured out. No, this would end it. This would end _him_.

The thoughts were so alarming that Jonathan couldn’t even look at Sandy, who was looming over them. His eyes darted to Camilla’s face which was, somehow, unchanged. She slowly looked down at where Sandy’s hand gripped her arm then back up at the tall man. She smiled. Her free hand fell over his, pushing it aside until he let go of his hold on her. When Sandy smiled back, Jonathan found his breath again.

“Don’t be in such a rush to go just because I interrupted,” Lord Langbourne said. 

It was clear from his speech, both loud and slowed, that Sandy was in an early stage of drunkenness and now Jonathan could plainly see the flush in his face. 

“I was just telling Mr. Birch that Fausto looks forward to seeing him on the water another time. Maybe at the Cowes regatta,” said Camilla. 

“Ah yes, I’m sure Dicky will drag him to that at some point. But for now, wouldn’t you like to continue to keep Andrew company? He’s a handsome devil, don’t you agree?”

Her eyes fell on Andrew, who was nearly indistinguishable from Jonathan in his anger, burning through the thin façade. He faked a flattered laugh to save himself. “Sandy, that really won’t be—“

“Oh, stop it! I’m trying to do you a favor, my man.”

“I really can’t stay any longer,” Camilla stressed. 

“C’mon, darling,” Sandy went on. “Fausto’s gone; you’ve got the night off. Couldn’t you be convinced?”

Jonathan couldn’t tolerate this. He squared up his shoulders defensively, still attempting to keep a friendly face while wanting to break Sandy’s. Now was the time to drag this man away from her so no more harm could be done, but nothing happened before Camilla countered. 

“Convinced of what?” she asked coolly. 

Finding no answer, Sandy seemed to realize suddenly what he had just said and stumbled over his reply. 

“Sorry, I really didn’t mean to—“

“Goodnight, gentlemen.”

A foul sensation generated in Jonathan’s stomach as she walked away and he washed it down with a final swig. He stared at her until she disappeared. Nothing straightforward, nothing easy in this life he had chosen. 

“I really didn’t mean to insult her,” said Sandy.

Jonathan shrugged. He didn’t have it in him tonight to try to make Sandy feel better about the sorry excuse for a human being he was. 

“Nice try, anyway,” he said ambiguously, clapping Lord Langbourne once on the back with full sarcasm.

“Only came over to you because Dicky decided to call it a night.”

Jonathan scanned the perimeters to see if that was true and saw no sign of the chief or any of his stooges still hanging around. At least that was good. A quick way out.

“Perhaps we should call it one also.”

“You do what you want, Andrew. It’s not yet midnight and I still have some carousing to do.”

No sooner had Jonathan stretched out his hand than a waiter arrived to take the glass from him. 

“Carry on, then. Until tomorrow.”

Sandy gave him a salute, as he often did to tease him for his soldier-like ways, but Jonathan didn’t humor him with one back this time. He was already well within the crowd, stopping briefly to say goodbye to people he had been chatting with earlier, when he realized he had no plan but to leave the party. He’d seen Camilla walk out and that was it, no clue as to where she had gone, if it had been too much for her, if the opportunity was gone for good. No one else was by the entrance except a man posted for security—not one of Roper’s, certainly an employee of the hotel. Jonathan wished the man goodnight as he stepped out. 

“Goodnight, sir. Wait—sir!”

Jonathan turned around. “Yes?”

“Are you, um, Mr. Birch?”

“Indeed I am," he said, coming closer. 

The man reached hastily into his jacket and handed him a small piece of paper, folded in half. “A lady asked me to give you this.”

Written within, in messy cursive, was one word. Sunflowers. Jonathan paused for a moment, a quick smile appearing and disappearing on his lips once he understood what it meant. He tucked the note into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out his wallet.

“Good man.”


	7. Chapter 7

There she was, beside the tall sunflowers lining the entrance to the cobblestone path that circled the resort. It was quiet on this side of the property. Jonathan could see no one else and only heard the sounds of music and voices far off in the distance. And it was dark, too. Only dim lights brightening the walkways and the sparkle of the nearby ocean under the moon. When he came close to the woman, she smiled, tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear and began to walk. He followed. 

“Thanks for giving it another shot, Jonathan,” Camilla said eventually. 

“I should be the one thanking you.”

She shrugged, then extended her closed fist and handed him a brass-colored object that appeared to be a lighter. Jonathan flipped it open to reveal what he expected—a USB connector hidden within. He nearly thanked her again for having the common sense to not leave it with anyone else and wait to hand it to him personally. 

“I had hope that you wouldn’t be seen with me this often,” he told her as he scanned the area once, ever alert. 

“What does it matter now? I’ll be gone by tomorrow and then none of these sorts will see me again.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jonathan wondered if she meant that she was planning on giving up her profession for good. Who could blame her? There had to be a breaking point for how often one was willing to look the other way in order to remain part of this world. He wasn’t bold enough to express understanding, but he had to say something.

“I was absolutely horrified by the way Sandy spoke to you—” 

Camilla huffed a faint laugh. “Forget about that. I’ve have worse things said to me by better men. Anyone who thinks they can put me in my place by reminding me that I’m a whore is aiming at the wrong target.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. Of course, she must be bullet proof by now. And as much as he didn’t like hearing any woman refer to herself in such a way, he wasn’t about to take exception to anything she said.

“You were good in there,” she said a few steps later. “You kept your cool even though I could see murder in your eyes.”

He exhaled through his teeth. “I guess that’s what soldiering does.”

“It’s more than that, though. It’s in your nature, isn’t it? The potential to be violent. You’re one of those people who are like two sides of a coin.”

He didn’t know what to make of that. It eerily felt like a conversation he’d had before. Was it a judgment of character—a criticism? Merely an observation? Jonathan shifted his eyes down to sneak a glance her face but quickly diverted them when he was met by her gaze. 

“Maybe,” he said, looking straight ahead again. But he knew that it was true. 

“I hope you think I handled the situation well also.”

“Remarkably well. In fact, you’d be pretty well suited to this sort of work.”

She half-laughed again. “No thanks, you can keep it.” 

They’d gone far enough that no trace of the party could be heard anymore, just the calming crashing of the waves. Jonathan noticed that his hand had not left is pocket; he’d been unconsciously fidgeting with the tiny device for reassurance. He let go of it and brought the hand up to rub the nape of his neck. 

“Something wrong?”

“No… um, no.”

“You’ve got it now, Jonathan,” she said as if reading his mind.

“Right.”

“And you have my trust along with it.”

Those words made Jonathan stop suddenly and turn on his heel to get a good look at her. Her face was so honest, just as he’d remembered. No more angst or anger repressing her beauty. 

“I can’t blame you for believing that men will always let you down, Camilla. But I hope I don’t.”

She tilted her head up, blinking, and adjusted the sleeve of her dress that had slipped down. Strands of hair danced over her eyes, brushed aside by the breeze, but she didn’t care to push them away.

“I don’t think you will.”

Jonathan stared down at the ground, then back at her, unsure that there was anything left to do. And what to say now? Goodbye. It’s been a pleasure.

“Maybe you should walk alone the rest of the way from here. Just to be careful.”

Another sweet smile. 

“I’m staying in the old building, near where we came from, not anywhere around here.”

“Why did we start walking this way, then?”

“I thought the bungalows were along this part of the beach,” Camilla said with a suddenly softer tone.

A thought came into Jonathan’s mind that made his blood run warm. 

“Yes, they are,” he replied before he could think again. 

“And yours?”

“And mine.”

“Well, then.”

_Fuck._

He looked at her to clarify the matter, but it was far too quick. Her long lashes swept down as she ran her eyes down his body and then flicked up to his lips. By the time her stare met his again, Jonathan knew that she had him. Indeed, she could have had him any time, from the very start. 

“How sure are you of this decision?” he asked, although he’d already begun walking purposefully.

She trailed behind him. “I’ve rehearsed it once or twice in a daydream.”

 

*

 

She was very quiet. Had he expected something different? He hadn’t said a thing either, so what difference did it make.   
Her hands, which had been flat against his chest, were leisurely moving up to the opening of his collar; he could feel the heat of her palms through the fine white linen of his shirt. He instinctively deepened the kiss and she finally took a step closer, body meeting body as his back hit the closed door. 

How quickly things happen, Jonathan thought at that moment. Only yesterday, this woman was nothing but a fantasy of long ago—a pleasant memory of a dead end. And now she was back in the flesh, with more to give than ever. The feeling racing through him was more than desire. Maybe gratefulness. Or hope. That indefinable sensation that life can be kind. The constant tension within him, the ticking clock that told him he was on a mission, was soundly at rest. 

Camilla was so much smaller than him, even more so on her bare feet, that he had to be cautious not to lift her from the ground completely as he held her tightly in his arms. Jonathan leaned down into the kiss and parted her lips with his tongue as she arched into him, his thighs splayed out to welcome her. He thrust his hips forward and she responded with a small yelp at the feeling of his hardness against her stomach. But she didn’t back off—she clung to him, both of her delicate hands falling atop his shoulders and then around the back of his head. The kiss continued with only small pauses for air and the more time he gave her, the more audible gasps came from Camilla.

Jonathan moaned in return. His cock was hot and throbbing like a bruise between their bodies, begging for release. But he wouldn’t rush this. For once, he was being rewarded with something he had wished for. Since he’d begun this precarious way of living he found, oddly, that he was able to enjoy things more freely. A consequence of never knowing what fate would have for him tomorrow or the next day. 

With his eyes closed, he relished the pressure of her feminine frame against the tightened muscles of his torso as she licked and kissed the sensitive, clean-shaven skin at his jaw. 

In the bedroom, Camilla sat at the edge of the bed looking up at him as he removed his shirt. He unbuttoned the front without haste and her eyes followed his fingers down to the last button. He placed his watch on the night stand. At that second, her right hand reached out to the buckle of his belt. Jonathan swatted it away. “No,” he said sternly. He didn’t mean to be unkind, only to make clear that he didn’t require her assistance. He would be more at ease, in fact, with her participation at a minimum. 

She was temporarily startled by the action, but kept her hands by her side compliantly. Jonathan showed his appreciation by tilting her chin up gently before unbuckling his own trousers and pushing the shirt off his body completely. 

He couldn’t help but shake his head at how much he enjoyed the way she looked at him in that moment. It was only a guess, but by the shallowness of her breath and the color of her face, it seemed that genuine lust was a rare emotion to her and one she was overcome with now. 

It felt good to be desired. Jonathan was aware that many women found him attractive, that much had always been obvious, but rarely did it go beyond a superficial level of longing. Camilla’s wide-eyed stare told him that she had imagined this many times before, not ‘once or twice’ as she had said. What had been going through her mind in Zermatt whenever they exchanged a smile in the lobby? The many times he poured a glass of wine for her. The night after the wedding.  
These dizzying thoughts were put to an end when Camilla confirmed them. 

“Herr Pine…” she muttered, nearly giggling. She shifted on the mattress as her eyes continued drifting unashamedly, practically devouring his physique. 

Suddenly, a switch went off in Jonathan and he felt a sense of recklessness that he had not felt since his youth. He no longer cared if he’d been seen bringing a woman into his rooms or if one of the bodyguards came knocking on his door to check on him. It all went out of his mind. 

He crawled over Camilla in one quick move, flattening her against the bed as he kissed her mouth and neck and collarbones and licked her perfect skin. Her body arched upward immediately, creating contact at every point possible. He couldn’t resist pressing into her, enjoying her figure trapped under his and the eagerness with which she sought him out. Her smooth legs came up on either side of his waist and her bust against his ribcage, rising and falling with every pant. No sooner had he begun to caress the curve of her thigh than Jonathan felt a hand slide down his abdomen until it reached the bulge in his trousers, gripping it lightly and stroking its length. He groaned involuntarily in pleasure but pushed himself up with his arms quickly, catching her hand and swiping it aside. “Stop it,” he commanded, once again conscious of not sounding harsh. He expected to find some confusion in Camilla’s face caused by his insistence, but for some reason she seemed rather stunned. The way she looked into Jonathan’s eyes with amazement made his heart nearly stop. She whispered, “I—I’m ready for you.” 

Almost no time passed between her words and the movement of Jonathan’s hand from the outside of her thighs to the warm flesh between them. It was far too tempting to see if it was true. And it was. He dropped his head and bit down hard on his lip when he felt her wetness through the lace, enough to thinly coat his fingertips. _Oh, fuck._ But no, he wouldn’t go for it. How strange that she would think he would. 

“Not quite,” he said beside her ear before pushing his middle finger fully into her depths. She grabbed on to his biceps with a groan, but Jonathan tore away from her grip and slid down her body until he was kneeling on the floor. Beginning to stroke inside her, the slick heat dripping onto his palm, he bunched the dress up around her waist and held her hips down in place with his free hand. He was, he noticed, being a bit rougher than he’d intended, but he was much too distracted by the mounting intensity of what was taking place to dwell on it. His thumb found the right spot quickly and his mouth followed, pressing kisses over it before his tongue darted out. Just a taste and he was enraptured, tearing the thin material as he pulled it aside. He barely heard Camilla as she hoarsely cried, _God… Jon—Jonathan… yes..._

The last woman he’d been with, the girl from Devon who only knew him by the name Jack Linden, was jumpy and somewhat shy when it came to this sort of thing, but Camilla opened up to him effortlessly. She lay back with her neck stretched and her eyelashes fluttering as he lapped at her cunt and pinned her thighs down with the weight of his forearms. His cock twitched. How he'd missed this.

When he added another finger, a hand ran through his hair in a soothing motion that kept a steady pace with him as he went on. So it was something of a shock when nails scratched into his scalp sharply, with clear intention. Hissing against her bare flesh, Jonathan shook off the stinging sensation, but couldn’t help the hard, confrontational scowl that followed. Camilla was not affected this time. She returned the glare weakly but audaciously, as if waiting to see what would happen next. Was she trying to provoke his anger?

Jonathan came to a dead stop and back up to his feet. When she saw him stand, Camilla instantly lifted her head and shoulders off the bed, ready to mold herself into whatever shape he desired. 

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” he cut her off. 

Jonathan swooped down and wrapped her in his arms, repositioning both of their bodies further into the bed. As she eased herself to lie flat again, Jonathan lowered his head to her chest and tugged down at her loose fabric with his nose and teeth until her breasts were exposed. 

“I thought we would do this nicely,” he said. “But it seems you want something else from me.”

She was quiet again, no clever remarks, nothing. Maybe she just wasn’t used to being in this situation, in which she suggested to a man what she wanted and he sought out her confirmation. He was certain he was playing the game correctly, but still Jonathan shifted his eyes to look up at her every few seconds as he licked her nipples and took them into the warmth of his mouth. She moaned and whimpered and stroked his hair again, ever so gently, even as he began to graze his teeth. 

The ecstasy visible in Camilla’s face had a purity and sincerity like he had never witnessed and much less expect from her. There was no performance or persona here. She was stripped of everything that made her seductive, and Jonathan could not have wanted her more.

He reached for his aching cock, giving it a few unnecessary strokes as he came up to her entrance. “Please,” she finally gasped. Camilla’s lips stayed parted in silent awe as he pushed into her slowly, roughly, eyes closed and jaw clenched. 

Jonathan felt surprisingly shaky. Such a singular sensation, perfectly indescribable, and capable of weakening men, as he was so often warned throughout his life. He held her face in his hands and slithered his tongue passionately against hers, if only to ground himself in the reality of it. Face to face.

As he began to thrust, his hands slid down to her throat, one staying in place and the other reaching to touch her breasts again, squeezing the full, soft flesh. Everything was so soft for a moment—her body, his touch, their breathing. Then he felt Camilla move with him, meeting the undulation of his hips with increasing need, and a renewed vigor surged within Jonathan. 

He drove into her once, hard enough to suppress her movements, and took over, fucking her in earnest. With his knees spread far apart, the angle was low and punishing, making the woman’s thighs tremble and her skin sweat. Jonathan began to sweat from the exertion also and he could feel Camilla struggle to maintain a grasp on his back. Her nails dug in again but now Jonathan did not register any pain as his heartbeat drummed in his ears and his mind slipped into a fog. These signs of unrestrained pleasure were alarmingly similar to those of blind rage, but he surrendered to them nonetheless. 

Her neck was so small in his hand and he was sure he felt every moan and whimper as it rose through her throat. For a brief second he tightened his grip just to get a feel for his own strength, and this thrilled Camilla. He repeated the action, again and again, in a pattern that she could not anticipate. 

As he fucked harder and deeper, her muted sounds nearly became screams. Jonathan moved his other hand up to cover her mouth and brought the weight of his body down over her. His thrusts were gaining speed as he listened to the muffled cries against his ear. Reacting on raw instinct, he began to say possessive things in return, and when he noticed her eyes going blank and her breath becoming thin, he understood that she had handed herself over to him completely. 

The thought was far too much, and Jonathan fell out of rhythm. He growled in frustration as he plunged into her again, feeling a burning pulse deep in his loins.  
Thinking quickly, he sat up and pulled Camilla by the waist onto his lap. The added pressure around his cock stunned him only for a second before he composed himself again and brushed back the wet hair from his brow. His muscles were still tense, still charged with energy. Jonathan was pleased with himself and glad that this would not come to an end so soon. 

But Camilla’s eyes were out of focus. Her languishing body was only propped up by the strength of his arms. As she regained her senses, something close to a smile played out on her lips. Still unsteady and sensitive to every subtle move, she made an effort to wrap her legs behind his back, but only achieved this with his help. Her warm face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Jonathan kissed her hair and held her awhile.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you.”


	8. Chapter 8

_“I like looking at you. I always liked looking at you.”_

_“Same.”_

_“Even though you’re a bit different than I remembered.”_

_“Any better?”_

_“Mostly. Your nose is slightly crooked.”_

_“Yes, I broke it.”_

_“How?”_

_“In a fight.”_

_“Oh, of course. You’ve been up to no good lately.”_

_“Indeed.”_

_“Or a great deal of good.”_

_“Depends on how you look at it.”_

 

It was a short flight, but it seemed an eternity to Jonathan. In his mind he replayed parts of the conversation he’d had with the woman, sharing a cigarette in bed with the windows open, before escorting her back to her room in the middle of the night. When he wasn’t thinking of this, he thought of the flash drive artfully hidden within his belongings. He couldn’t escape it. He pretended to read a sports magazine as Roper sat across from him with a newspaper, all the while sneaking glances at the chief and wondering how it was possible that the ruse had come this far, how nothing had gone too terribly wrong. Jonathan had yet to calculate when he would hand the new intelligence to Burr. If he did it soon, it may sidetrack Operation Limpet. If he waited too long, the information may never reach her hands. He had to use a bit of cunning. 

 

_“Why does Roper trust you?”_

_“Because I am him.”_

_“You’re certainly not.”_

_“At the moment, I am everything he wishes he’d been at my age. I’m what he hopes his son will grow up to be. I’m his creation—his star.”_

_“You’re very brave.”_

_“I have nothing to lose.”_

_“Nothing at all?”_

_“No.”_

_“Don’t be so sure. Someday you will.”_

 

Seeing as they would commence their descent at any moment, which always caused him mild anxiety, Jonathan put down the magazine and took a few long strides to the jet’s bar. The flight attendant tried to assist him, but he waved her away. He poured whisky over ice and held the cold glass firmly. The clock was ticking again. 

“Andrew,” Roper called after him, never tearing his eyes away from his reading, “do you mind fixing the same for me?” 

“Not at all.”

Jonathan brought the second drink with him, both in one hand, placed them on the table, and sat down again. Sandy Langbourne, who had been working quietly in the opposite corner, swaggered up to them with a tablet computer in tote. 

“Well, I’ve enforced the warning, boss.”

“Ah, good,” Roper replied.

Jonathan looked at him inquisitively. 

“We’ve had a few incidents of people posting pictures of us from the trip online,” Roper explained. “It’s happening more now since so many of these bored women are trying to become social media celebrities. Simply put, the world does not need to know where we are and what we are up to at all times.”

Sandy took a seat close to them, stretching out his long legs, still looking at the screen. Something about the crisp, clean look of his tan trousers put Jonathan off. It didn’t suit him to be so polished. 

“Speaking of bored women, Dicky, I was able to speak with that designer friend of Jed’s last night.”

 _Jed_. Jonathan cleared his throat. He hadn’t given her a thought since yesterday morning, but now her doe-like eyes flashed in his mind and it felt something like doom. He hid behind the magazine again, listening with full attention. 

“The dressmaker?”

Langbourne chuckled. “He has his own fashion house, old boy. Said he would ship some things for her to try on.”

“Does he need to measure her? I’m sure she would be happy to host him for the day. Keeps her busy.”

“No need. He said she already fits his usual sample size. Only requested that whatever pieces she chooses, she should be photographed in as often as possible.”

“Well,” Roper groaned. “Better her than me.”

There was something rather sinister in those few words. The way he’d said them, the indifference in his voice. Usually Roper had unreserved tenderness for Jed, but there had been a change in tone toward her recently. In fact, there had been a change in tone in general, even in the way he spoke to Sandy now. Slightly withholding, possibly distrustful. 

Roper folded his paper abruptly.

“Actually, Sandy, I should like to see these pictures you had deleted. Did you make a record of them?” 

“Of course. Maybe we’ll want to keep some.”

From the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw Roper grab the tablet and begin scrolling through the images, pausing for a time over certain ones, and slowly coming to a judgement. His face momentarily lit up. 

“Yes, we should,” he decided. “Quite a few of them are rather good. Andrew, you should see how marvelous you look in some of these. Makes the rest of us look old and hunched.”

Sandy laughed again and slicked back his thin hair. “Speak for yourself.”

Jonathan had no choice but to join the conversation when Roper turned the screen to him. “Very nice,” he said, trying not to make eye contact with his own image while still appreciating it. He saw himself in mirrors all the time lately, always trying to impress. But the pictures were still unsettling and conflicted with his own perception of himself. On the other hand, he was relieved to realize how flawlessly he fit in and how complete the illusion was. He leaned back in his seat with a finger pressed against his lips in contemplation as the chief continued to swipe from one picture to the next. Then something caught his eye.

“Can I see the previous one again, please?”

“This one?”

“Yes.” 

Jonathan folded his body forward to take a closer look. The photograph was of him, Roper, and Fausto Saavedra maybe a minute after he’d been introduced to the Spaniard. Although Roper was the one speaking, the camera had focused in on Jonathan who was shown in profile with an attractive smile that went up to his eyes. No one could have known what he was thinking then. And now only he knew that the woman at the very margin of the picture, a glimpse of her face and the back of one shoulder barely visible, could potentially ignite the fire that finally burned this vile business to the ground. 

Jonathan thought back to that moment. Saavedra had not introduced her, not to him and probably not to anyone. And she had disappeared so quickly, Jonathan was left doubting himself for too long a while. Even in the picture it seemed she wasn’t truly there. 

But then Jonathan thought of the warm flesh of her thighs and sweet scent of her sweat and how very real it all had been. He quickly blinked the memory away and straightened up to look at Roper. “I like that one very much.”

The men chatted for a few more minutes before preparing for landing; about golf and horses and other things Jonathan had taught himself to care about. Once the flight attendant had collected their papers and dishware, things got quiet and he took the opportunity to rest his head and close his eyes. He was calm for now, partly because of the whisky and partly because of the unexpected spark of confidence brought on by the lingering presence of Camilla. Sometimes he felt unstoppable. But very soon he would be back behind the gates of Richard Roper’s home, treading lightly as he played the right hand of the worst man in the world. He mapped his next steps in his mind and they seemed to make sense. _We’ll see_ , he thought. Anything could happen.

 

_“So what’s life like for you at the compound?”_

_“I play a lot of tennis. Rotate between swimming in the pool or in the ocean.”_

_“You know that’s not what I meant.”_

_“About what you’d expect. A lot of waiting smattered with high-risk action. It’s almost a military cliché.”_

_“It sounds nauseatingly dangerous, Jonathan. I know this isn’t news to you, but it just makes me so nervous.”_

_“Sorry.”_

_“When this is all over, I’d like to get a message from you. I want to hear of your success.”_

_“Success is ambitious; I’d be satisfied with survival."_

_“I’m asking for a simple favor.”_

_“How will I even know how to reach you?”_

_“You know where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing. I’m sure you can figure it out.”_

_“Right.”_

_“I hope you don’t keep me waiting.”_

_“I hope not.”_


End file.
